


Busted

by DevilsHole



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilsHole/pseuds/DevilsHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a tag fic to The McCreedy Bust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busted

 

~*~*~

 

The stagecoach slowly ate the miles, chewing each methodically, making the two passengers taste every foot of dirt and rock between Red Rock and Agua Caliente.

 “Twenty. Thousand. Dollars,” Hannibal Heyes sighed, staring blankly out at the bland desert landscape. He could still feel the weight and the oily roughness of the bills against his palms. He could _smell_ it, damn it.

Kid Curry sat back in the stagecoach and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, heavily, the word a complete sentence, no reprieve or pardon in sight.

_And now we’re all but broke again_. Heyes didn’t say it, but he thought it, and he knew the Kid was thinking it. They’d had it, after all that work and plotting and conniving and almost getting killed – it’d been within their grasp.

Until Armendariz.

Heyes looked out the window, jaw grinding. He should have known. What did he think, that Armendariz would just give up? He knew damn’ well the man would come after that stupid bust and take anything else he could get his hands on.

They’d gotten in too deep, in too far with men who played for keeps. Rich, powerful men, men who ate bums like them for dinner. There was no way they could have won, caught between two men like McCreedy and Armendariz.

They were lucky to still have their shirts and the nearly three dollars that was all they had left between them. They were lucky to be alive.

But Heyes’ failure still galled.

Somehow, what galled him most, what really made him sick, was letting the Kid down. They’d been so close – all his idea, his plans, his tricks, and the Kid had gone along, completely trusting him – and he’d mucked it up, royally. He hated seeing one of his plans go south. Hated failing. More than anything – like taking a bullet – he hated seeing that look on the Kid’s face, that brief, quickly masked disappointment.

Heyes leaned against the side of the coach, face pressed to the window’s edge, squinting across the desert.

It would’ve broken his heart if he’d ever admitted to having one.

~*~*~

“Heyes.”

Heyes turned, blinking away the haze from the bright afternoon sky he’d had his eyes pointed at for hours. The coach was so dark in comparison that Curry’s face was little more than a pale blur at first.

“I ain’t blaming you. You did everything you could. It was bad luck. Nothin’ more than that.”

Heyes blinked until he could see Curry’s eyes; the honest acceptance and faith there broke his heart. God damn. He didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this kind of loyalty.

“You’re a good partner, Kid.”

Surprised, Curry grinned. “You’re only sayin’ that cuz I’m your only partner.”

But Heyes wasn’t in a joking mood. They were tired and wore out and all but penniless – worse, they’d got their hopes up about being rich, then had those hopes dashed. That was worse than just being broke the whole time.

“I mean it,” he said. “You take the bad with the good and you stick by me. You forget all about it when I screw up and you still trust me. I …” He had no idea what to say that wouldn’t sound soggy and mushy, like a penny romance. What? _I love you, you’re wonderful? Don’t ever leave me?_ Ridiculous. The Kid’d laugh him right out of the stagecoach, leave him sitting on his ass in the dust.

Lamely, Heyes said, “I appreciate it, Kid. I really do.”

Smile erased, Curry scowled at him for a moment. “You do the same for me, Heyes. Nobody’s perfect, but we stick by each other, you and me. Anyways, you didn’t screw up. If it hadn’t been for Armendariz’ men, we’d’ve gotten outta there $20,000 richer, all thanks to you.”

Heyes shook his head, swallowing down emotions bitter and sweet.

Then Curry’s hand fell across his wrist – startling – and he looked up into the Kid’s unsmiling face.

Curry swallowed. “Heyes …”

And the coach swayed and lurched to a halt.

“Agua Caliente!” the coachman shouted.

~*~*~

Heyes and Curry took their nearly three dollars into the saloon. Heyes sat down at the only game in town, with three other men, all of them at least twice his age. He nearly felt ashamed as he parlayed their pittance into the cost of hotel room, two dinners, and enough extra for a little temporary consolation.

All of it – the whole town – seemed coated in a thin layer of dust. Heyes thought that might be his imagination.

Curry – oddly – resorted to whiskey, laying silent claim to a small corner table. Heyes sat next to him, anxious and dissatisfied, looking aimlessly around the saloon, until, with a wave of his glass, the Kid urged him to do as he would.

The salon boasted three girls. The blonde – Heyes didn’t often look at blondes. Blondes were serious business. That was a fact of life he didn’t think about. Ever.

But the Mexican girl smiled at him with her mouth and her eyes and all her curves, and for a moment he felt more like a man than he had for a while. They discussed particulars and Heyes pondered, briefly, the difference between twenty thousand dollars and two dollars, and how rich and poor were relative.

She said _Si_ and _I’m Maria_ , and he slid an arm over her bare brown shoulders, glancing back across the room to nod at his partner, an acknowledgement between them that he’d found a little temporary diversion, as they’d done a thousand times.

The look on the Kid’s face stopped him cold, cold as a bucket of ice water.

Curry wasn’t looking at him – was, in fact, _not_ -looking so hard Heyes felt that look in his gut. Fury. Cold, silent, fury.

Curry set down his glass, slow and careful, still not looking at Heyes or Maria, and stood up – a slow-motion parody of his stance when having to draw on a cheatin’ card-player. He crossed to the stairs, moving with measured grace that spoke of a level of control only Heyes recognized.

“Sorry, darling,” he said to the whore, not even glancing at her. “I’ll see you later, maybe.”

He lifted his arm from the girl and followed the Kid, wincing at the sharp Spanish vulgarity Maria spat at his back.

~*~*~

The Kid was sitting in the chair by the window when he entered. He glanced up when Heyes came in, head turning toward Heyes but not actually looking at him, then resumed staring out at the night sky.

Heyes shut and locked the door – habit – then deposited his hat and gunbelt on a nearby chair.

“Kid. What’s wrong?”

Curry shook his head.

“Wrong answer.”  Heyes advanced, knowing Curry could out-stubborn a rock when he had a mind to. “Is it … are you still mad at me about the money?”

Startled, Curry shot out of the chair, facing him. “No!”

“I’d understand if you were. We could’ve –”

Curry grabbed his shoulders, startling him into silence.

“Heyes.” The blue eyes locked hot onto his. “The money don’t matter. It. Don’t. _Matter_.” The Kid shook him, hard, but holding him steady with strong hands. “You got that? Not between us. Don’t you _ever_ talk about money like it matters between us.”

Horrified – humbled – Heyes nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He reached up, caught at the Kid’s arms, stroking in a vaguely comforting manner, not unlike calming a spooked horse. “Sorry.”

The Kid’s hard hold eased a little, and Heyes breathed. “So what’re you mad about, then?”

Curry’s hands dropped as if Heyes’ body had shocked him. He turned his face away. “Nothing.” The rest of him followed, but Heyes wasn’t letting that kind of “nothing” drop. He knew better.

“The girl, then,” Heyes said mildly. “Kid, if you liked her, you know all you had to do was say—”

That brought the Kid back around, facing him. “No!”

“Then what?” Heyes asked. “You’re mad. I saw that. How come?”

Curry shook his head and Heyes repeated, softer:

“Kid. How come?”

“I don’t know.” Curry sat – thumped – on his bed and started pulling off his boots. “I don’t know. You were goin’ off with that whore, and …” He shook his head, a sharp, almost violent act. “I don’t know. It made me mad.”

_Oh. God. It’s … that._ Heyes had never fully articulated it, this – this thing between them, but it was as real, as constant, as unspeakable, as the prison sentences hanging over them.

“Kid.” Heyes sat next to him, nervous, scared – not of the Kid, never of the Kid, I’d be scared of myself sooner – but scared of what was happening, what might happen. “If you want me to stay here, I’ll stay here.”

Curry shook his head again. “No. Why waste your time sittin’ around with me when you could be havin’ some real fun with that girl?”

He meant it, Heyes could tell. At least, he was saying what he knew ought to be the truth, what he ought to think and feel. And it was as fake as a wooden nickel.

_Kid_. Heyes felt warmth well up in his throat, felt his eyes sting at the hint of tears. _I know you love me, but it can’t be possible that you love me that much. That you love me like that._ But what was crystal clear was that the Kid didn’t want him going off with some whore. For some reason, not tonight. The Kid wanted him here.

And there wasn’t a woman on the planet, whore or not, who could beat that hand.

“Go on,” Curry said, smiling, his tone casual, comfortable. False, false. “She’s probably still waitin’ for you.”

And Heyes thought something, but didn’t dare say it – then, crazily, he said it.

“Why? She doesn’t give a damn about me. I’m no different from any other man to her. I’m a dick, half an hour of her time, and a few dollars.” He sat down. “I think I’d rather stick around here where I’m wanted.” _Where I’m  … loved, though I’ll be damned if I know why._

And the Kid’s head rose, those blue eyes sparking like diamonds, even though he fought not to smile.

“You’re crazy,” he said, his face telling an entirely different story.

“Yeah. Maybe so.” He bent, reaching around to the foot of the bed to grab his carpet bag and drag it within reach. He dug out their battered deck, sat straight, and shuffled, several times, eyes on his hands and his mind on what was happening – what he thought was happening – and what he ought to do about it.

He didn’t have the faintest idea in the world.

 “Five card stud?” he asked, cocking his head at Curry.

Curry lifted the deck out of his hands, a quick, sure move, and Heyes’ fingertips tingled for an instant. “Not right now. You still got that book you were readin’?”

“Huckleberry Finn?” he said automatically. Curry’s expression cleared, calm blue skies after a sudden storm. He stretched out against the thin pillows, arms above his head.

“That’s it. Will you read it out loud for a while? I liked it.”

That, for no reason at all, made him suddenly grin. _It’s enough. For right now, that’s enough._

He fished the battered novel out of his bag. “You sure?”

Curry closed his eyes. “They were at the wreck on the river.”

Heyes grinned, so hard he couldn’t have spoken without laughing out loud. He waited, staring at the Kid’s long lounging form on the bed, letting the joy in him wax and wane.

Then he dragged his eyes from his partner, cleared his throat, and opened to the bookmark.

 

The End

 


End file.
